


Eros

by Spiderheart



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Love Gods, M/M, Pagan Gods, Trickster Gods, the boys move on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-09-07 05:50:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart
Summary: Angels didn’t even attempt dancing, and demons didn’t dance very well; Aziraphale and Crowley both knew this.But, by all that was holy or desecrated, pagan gods couldtear it up.





	1. Chapter 1

Eros knew he was unwanted, possibly in danger; but he wasn’t about to lose out on gaining his family a trump card, after so long relegated to nothing more than a mockery, gracing advertisements and children’s films (all right, that one had been rather kind to them, even if Eros was unhappy with his portrayal as a non-speaking role despite there being a _love story_) and classrooms as some dusty relic, no longer _real_, just imaginary. Not like capital-G God, who was, of course, Real.

But now God had discarded one of the powerful near-gods they called angels, and Eros wasn’t about to lose him. It burned like anything, but not nearly the way a demon would feel—no, Eros was _pagan_, was _other_, but he still remembered the beginning of _his_ universe, where he was the oldest, was the creator deity—and it was that part of him that powered him through the warding, to knock on the door, though his knuckles burned and bled as though he’d been punching rusted metal, not rapping politely on a bookshop door.

He waited quite a long time, before rapping again; at the third time, the door opened. Eros knew he was seen for what he was, and didn’t mind it. The angel’s white brows knit in concern.

‘Can I help?’ he asked, and meant every word.

‘You’re a being of love, I am a god of love; would you like to be mine?’ Eros said, having practised but unsure if they were the Right Words. He was out of his depth, trying to speak honestly and un-flirtatiously to another being, who was not a god, but was not mortal—not quite a monster either, but something entirely alien to his pantheon.

‘Oh, I—Oh my, you’re bleeding—’

‘The wards,’ Eros said, raising a quizzical brow. ‘It took me ages to find you.’

‘Oh, dear, I didn’t think they’d keep out—but of course, I didn’t think any of _you_ would come calling—I am terribly sorry, my dear chap, please er—well, please _come in_,’ he said, and the words rang with Purpose, and the wards opened with the smooth feeling of gates well-used and well-oiled, and the tension Eros was feeling in his body, as though he had to fight to even stay still, rather than be pushed back, was gone. He followed the angel inside the bookshop, inhaling deeply. He loved the smell of books, of lacquered wood and dust-motes—but more, there was _love_ here. Books were labours of love, full of it, for how mortals did love stories! But the shop itself was also all over love, and Eros felt at home in it, letting out his wings when he saw there were no mortals to see.

‘Oh,’ he heard behind him. ‘Goodness, are they supposed to be that bright?’

Eros chuckled. Currently his wings were all colours, constantly shifting with specific combinations. ‘It’s June,’ he said, ‘I’m usually in America, for June, with the rest of my family. Queer Pride, you know?’

‘Ah,’ said the angel, and smiled. ‘How wonderful. Of course you would be. You are, er, one of the Erotes, are you not?’

‘Eros,’ he said, holding out a hand. The angel took it warmly.

‘Aziraphale,’ he said. ‘Won’t you have some tea? I’ve some very nice little jammy biscuits from the bakery a few doors down.’

Eros smiled, and it was the most winsome smile Aziraphale had ever seen. ‘I’d love to.’


	2. Falling to Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels didn’t even attempt dancing, and demons didn’t dance very well; Aziraphale and Crowley both knew this.
> 
> But, by all that was holy or desecrated, pagan gods could _tear it up._

Angels didn’t even attempt dancing, and demons didn’t dance very well; Aziraphale and Crowley both knew this.

But, by all that was holy or desecrated, pagan gods could _tear it up_.

Eros insisted on taking Aziraphale to meet his family, and had insisted on Crowley coming along when Aziraphale spoke of him, and both Aziraphale and Crowley were sitting at a table in a dark nightclub, watching Eros gyrate to the pulsing beat of the bass and drums, the winged gods of love all around him, all equally good at it. It was _almost_ not at all like watching angels dance.

‘Wow,’ Crowley said, unable to keep his eyes off them. Aziraphale was a little flustered, but determined to enjoy himself.

‘They’re very, very _close_ aren’t they?’

Crowley watched Eros full-frontal snog a tall drag-queen god with rainbow wings that had been dusted with gold glitter. ‘Close,’ he said, flatly. ‘Yeah.’ There was no sin rolling off them—there was just a strange… not a blank, exactly. There was just a _different_ glowing torch of power. They were more than archangels, they were the thing itself, and made the rules, and all. But here they were on earth, in a nightclub, acting like angels—or demons—and yet, acting more mortal than that.

‘They were never apart from mortals; that’s so beautiful, I think,’ Aziraphale said. ‘I think it’s… oh, I think it’s _important_,’ he said, a little afraid to speak of it, even vaguely; but Crowley was proud of him for saying anything at all. Aziraphale, who loved human food, and had extolled to Gabriel sushi’s many good points—or, well, he’d _tried_, and that was what made it all very _Aziraphale_. Even in a moment where he was caught flat-footed, he was ready to be on humanity’s side, ready to defend them just because they had invented _food_.

Eros had his eyes closed; but they suddenly opened, and glowed red, smouldering over one suggestive bare shoulder at Aziraphale, and he moved his entire arm in a flourishing come-hither gesture that was _obscene_. Crowley almost hissed, almost registered him as a incubus; but Aziraphale was shaking Crowley’s hand off his arm, getting up. Crowley folded his arms, sulkily watching, determined not to get involved, determined to prove he wasn’t jealous, no, not him, as Aziraphale let all the Erotes stroke and smooth hands all over his suit, let them dance around him, let them slowly pull him into the music, until Aziraphale actually _found the rhythm_, and Crowley saw, too late, what was happening.

They call it falling in love for a reason, but not the one mortals usually think—Aziraphale Fell, but into the waiting arms of the pagan gods, not into the lake of burning sulfur; he fell to _Earth_, his wings stretching wide and up, the dancers around him making room, and Crowley watched the embrace of a family larger and more complex than they’d ever known, Upstairs _or_ Down, watched many hands preen wings that had gone from white to the colour of parchment, the tips looking like they’d been dipped in the old kind of ink that you had to make from galls.

Did Aziraphale know? Did he hurt? But he looked like he was having fun, was starting to find the beat with his hips rather than looking for melody with his feet. Crowley was jealous, his tongue forked and nearly flicking out in annoyance, a hiss rising in his throat. It wasn’t panic, it wasn’t jealousy, he was just annoyed, that was all, _really_.

Someone sat in the booth, setting down a cocktail glass full of something pink and foamy, garnished with a delicate spiral of lemon.

‘Who’re you?’ Crowley asked, somehow able to hear himself perfectly over (or was it under?) the music which should have drowned it out. The person wasn’t mortal, but it was damnably hard to place anything beyond that. They were androgynous, red-haired, and enormously pregnant, though it didn’t seem to hinder them.

‘Loki,’ they said, and their dark lips quirked. ‘I could use a flexible, _clever_ agent like you in the world, Mister Crowley; and I hear tell you’re currently at a _loose end.’_

Every word was chosen and pronounced with the flourish of a supervillain, crisp and gushing and terribly camp, with enough confidence that one felt more seduced than amused. Certainly, Crowley felt like shifting in his seat, his already tight pants seeming tighter, same as skin eager to be shed.

He vaguely recalled there was some kind of film series that included Loki as a supervillain, and wondered if that was shaping this; or if Loki had simply _chosen_ to take the mortals’ new view of him and run with it. Why hadn’t Crowley seen those films?

Why was he so hesitant? A _god_ was asking him, _personally_. Hell, Crowley hadn’t even _met_ his boss, after Falling; and here he was, in the middle of a nightclub clearly owned by pagan gods, being offered a new position—one that didn’t, as far as he knew, come with a lot of paperwork.

‘Why,’ he managed, having never had a job interview before, but vaguely thinking he ought to ask some questions. ‘And what about discorporation?’

‘Discorporation?’ Loki echoed, raising a brow. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that to me.’

‘I mean, what if some mortal shoots me in the head, or something?’

Loki looked at him for a long time—not like Crowley was stupid, but like Crowley was speaking a different language entirely. Which, in a way, Crowley was. At last, they said. ‘We’re not _werewolves_, Mister Crowley. A silver bullet will not _harm_ us.’

‘You’re saying I _can’t_ be discor—killed?’

‘Isn’t that the definition of immortal, dear? I’m confused. Do demons normally have to worry about getting killed?’

‘Well, yeah—then we just get shunted back Downstairs, and there’s lots of paperwork involved in getting a new corpora—body.’

‘Is it not _yours_?’

‘I mean, technically I’m a multidimensional being with lots of eyes and whatnot. Can’t be comprehended in the mortal plane, et cetera.’

Loki’s pupils dilated. ‘_Really_? You haven’t simply shapeshifted into that form?’

‘Er, no.’

‘How curious. _Can_ you shapeshift?’

‘Bit rusty with anything but being a serpent, but yeah.’

‘But the body isn’t _yours?’_ Loki was stuck on that point. ‘It’s a loan?’

It got Crowley thinking about it, because he hadn’t really thought about it since the cancelled Apocalypse; and when had the pagan gods been around, really? Must have been something Adam added back in when he remade the world; either that, or they’d always been around, which was a much scarier thought. Crowley had thought there were only two choices: Falling or Not Falling. Being presented with a third one was… _was_.

Crowley experimentally tried to change the colour of his nails from human to a sort of classic mortal idea of demon nails—black and long and pointed. It worked. Hm. ‘Well, tell me what you would impart on me in regard to death. Would bullets just not penetrate? Would they miss?’

‘I’ve never regarded them as any trouble,’ Loki said, leaning back, regarding Crowley over their cocktail glass. ‘My _word_,’ they said, in an unfairly velvet purr. ‘You mean to say all this time, mortals would have been capable of killing you with _any_ weapon at all?’

Crowley didn’t know what to think of the question—of its _intent_. It wasn’t as though many demons, or angels, went about on Earth. Well, that had always been what Crowley thought. But Principalities were _supposed_ to, weren’t they? They were meant to be on Earth, guarding their area. Funny, Crowley had never really thought about what _other_ Principalities got up to.

Aziraphale was snogging and being snogged, many colours of lipstick all over his face and neck, hands wandering under unbuttoned shirt, waistcoat having disappeared, tie hanging loose around his neck. His hair was mussed—he always kept it too long for this century—and falling in his eyes. He looked breathless; but as always, he looked _wicked_. It was very much _Aziraphale_ who was in control of kisses, and Crowley knew that fact _intimately_.

‘Ah,’ Loki said, wisely. ‘You’re a pair?’

‘You know what?’ Crowley said, mostly to himself, ‘Yeah.’ Louder, he said to Loki, ‘Yeah, we _are_ a pair.’ It felt thrilling to say, to finally put into words. But he and Aziraphale were _unemployed_ now, they belonged nowhere—which meant they belonged wherever they wanted, however they wanted. Loki patted Crowley’s hand.

‘Well, you can still help me make mischief, and bring luck. I won’t stop you from being with your lover. Stars know I’ve been fucking Hermes for centuries. Some mortals even worship my family _and_ the Olympians. We’re a bit more relaxed about mingling.’

‘Help you make mischief and bring luck, is that what you call it?’

‘You’re very good at both, I see. You just call it something different. I’ll just have to train you to think for yourself, I think.’

‘Who says I don’t think for myself already?’ Crowley snapped, because he hated being known.

‘You’re a Christian; those don’t think for themselves,’ Loki said simply.

‘You’re a bastard,’ Crowley snapped.

‘I know,’ Loki said, smiling wide and curling. ‘So is your Aziraphale.’

**Author's Note:**

> Comments? Questions? Bonus Features? Come over to [my discord](https://discord.gg/Mvygfnn)!


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